Creating Amazingly Brilliant Things with Remarkably Bright Creatures

How one author's acknowledgements are inspiring my search for a creative community

I decided to go with a photo of an area where I imagined Remarkably Bright Creatures taking place, rather than any of the startlingly-detailed stock photos of octopuses I found. It turns out I can add octopuses to the list of things that trigger my trypophobia. (If you don’t know what trypophobia is, Google it at your own risk.)

I recently finished reading Remarkably Bright Creatures, a novel by author Shelby Van Pelt about an old woman who befriends an octopus at her local aquarium. It’s one I had seen on a number of book lists and been recommended by several people, but been partially putting off because of the hold line at the library and also because of how deep in the self-help and healing realm I’ve been lately (if you couldn’t already tell from my recent posts like this one or this one). When I received the Libby notification that my hold was ready, I decided to take a break from inner child research and attachment style science and give it a go.

I was nervous at first, given the subject matter. Books about relationships between animals and people tend to have a lot of heart, but books with a lot of heart are often the ones that hurt the most (looking at you, Where The Red Fern Grows). This one, luckily, has just the right amount. I’ll refrain from saying much more so as not to spoil it for you in case you haven’t read it yet, but I will say that when I was finished, I was eager to read the acknowledgements.

I don’t always read the full acknowledgements at the end of a book, but I usually like to take a peek in case they talk more about how or why they wrote the story before they start thanking every person they’ve ever met. And because this book took place in the Pacific Northwest (albeit in a fictional town), I was curious to learn more about the author and her inspiration.

Just as I’d thought, Shelby Van Pelt was born and raised in the PNW, which I could tell from her mentions throughout the story of areas like Snohomish County and Tukwila – two places I never thought I’d read in any book other than the topographic guide my dad kept under the seat of our family minivan. I liked that she was local and wasn’t just googling things for the sake of setting and plot (sorry, Stephanie Meyer), and as I continued reading through the acknowledgements, I learned a couple other interesting things that proceeded to blow me away:

1. Remarkably Bright Creatures is her debut novel,

2. And it stemmed from a workshop prompt.

The first is impressive in its own right, given how difficult it is to write a novel in the first place, let alone a good one. Hers, in fact, happens to be a good one – so much so that it was “an instant New York Times Bestseller,” according to Google Books. And in looking at the NYT Bestseller list, it currently sits at number 11 under hardcover fiction and has spent 42 weeks on the list to date.

This is why I often like to poke around in the acknowledgements after I finish a book, it’s also likely why so many people enjoy attending speaking events with the author: We’re in awe. We’re curious how they possibly came up with such an idea, how they brought it to life, what inspired them. And in the case of Remarkably Bright Creatures, it stemmed from something as seemingly simple as a writing exercise.

The opening scene, which is a sort of diary entry of Marcellus, a giant Pacific octopus, was originally a response to a workshop prompt about writing from “an unexpected point of view.” Shelby attributes the inspiration to something she saw on the internet:

“I had recently watched a YouTube video in which a captive octopus picked open a locked box with a treat inside, so that’s where my mind went, and I invented this curmudgeonly octopus who was bored and exasperated with humans. I didn’t know anything about octopuses back then, and I’m still no expert. But I’m certain they’re the most fascinating creatures on our planet.”

The imagination and curiosity of humans as a whole is notable, but in fiction writers, it is unmatched. In my opinion, they’re right up there with octopuses in terms of their creativity and brilliance.

I’m not exactly sure why I’m so floored by the idea of a workshop prompt becoming a full-blown novel. After all, all books have to start somewhere, so it makes sense that at least some of them would stem from a writing exercise. Perhaps it’s the simplicity of it, like how physical exercise really only requires a pair of walking shoes rather than a gym membership or a fancy treadmill, writing only requires a cue or an idea and somewhere to write it down.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve never attempted it.

But that’s not entirely true. My second unfinished “novel” (yes, there are several) started as a descriptive setting exercise from a creative writing class in high school. I managed to turn it into over a hundred pages (single-spaced!) of underdeveloped characters and problematic plot before I ran out of steam.¹

So then perhaps it’s because I’ve never accomplished it.

Sometimes I read a book like Remarkably Bright Creatures – one with heart and humor and an interesting perspective – and I think I could do that, but then I see the accolades and wonder if I really could. After all, I’ve attempted to write a long-form piece of work how many times now?² My track record sort of speaks for itself.

But I know it’s in me somewhere. Why else would I feel such a draw to it? Why else have I been trying to tell stories since I could hold a pencil? Maybe it’s not meant to be fiction, maybe it will be nonfiction. Maybe it’s something I haven’t experienced yet that will inspire me.

Because I remember the inspiration. I remember what it’s like to be excited by the idea and making my fingers work as fast as my mind to bring it to life, racing to put it on the page before it runs away from me. I remember writing all day, all night, all the time. I remember loving it and losing myself in it.

I want that back.

As part of her acknowledgements, Shelby thanks her online writing group, as well as the critique group she found through the workshop that helped her start her story, and something suddenly clicked for me.

I’ve been thinking of writing as a solitary activity, and in doing so, I’ve created a silo for myself, an echo chamber where my shame reverberates.

This isolation only keeps me in a shame spiral, of course, and prevents me from finishing nearly everything I start. I should know from my days as a writing major in college that this isn’t what writing is or how good writing is written. Good writing comes from focus and reflection, yes, but it also comes from revision, and revisions come from consulting others.

In college, however, I saw every workshop as a threat, a battle. I was always anticipating an attack, I couldn’t separate myself from my writing. I was sensitive. I still am in many ways, but I’m also hungry. I’m starved for creative connection.

Perhaps that’s what the acknowledgements of any book really represent: The fact that writing, like so much of life, is a solitary endeavor made possible by the support of a village. It’s like what I wrote a few weeks ago about freelancing and the feeling of wanting to be a lone wolf but also part of pack.

I am ready to find my village, my pack.

I’m ready to start creating amazingly brilliant things with remarkably bright creatures, across the ocean of the internet or otherwise.

1. I’m putting “novel” in quotes because it’s not a novel, is it? How can it be if it’s unfinished? What is it if it is unfinished? 🤔

2. “Long-form piece of work” feels like a more fitting term for the above. ^